Certificate of Excellence Winner: The 2025 Hilarie Lindsay Short Story Competition for Australian School Children

Where the sound of light exists 

Yunha Back

Nobody noticed the boy with the violin.

Every afternoon, like clockwork, he settled at the very edge of the city square-just where the sunlight began to fade and shadows stretched like whispers across stone. His figure was slight, fragile even, as if the world had forgotten to let him grow. His arms wrapped around his violin with the aching gentleness of someone who had known solitude far too long. And when he played, it was never with grandeur or force. His bow moved slowly, tenderly, each stroke a gentle sigh, as if he was pulling secrets from the air itself. The music was never loud or perfect. It was quiet, searching, aching with a sorrow that seemed too vast for words.

The music that emerged was soft, tentative-filled with longing and the kind of sorrow that didn’t cry out but lingered in the quietest corners. It was music for those who listened between the noise of the world. But no one did. People hurried past, heads down, wrapped in their own worlds. Some dropped coins into the worn case without looking. A few cents for a fleeting moment of melody-then moved on. No one dared meet his eyes. No one stayed to unravel the sadness woven into his songs. They heard, but they didn’t listen. No one ever stopped long enough to feel what he was saying.

Except her.

She came every Thursday, rain or shine, wearing the same green sweater that had faded just enough to be soft like old memories. Her fingers always clutched a red notebook, but she never opened it. She didn’t take notes, didn’t sketch or write poems. Instead, she sat quietly a few feet away, as if the music was stitching threads around her broken edges, weaving her back together without a single word spoken. Her presence was not casual; it was an offering-pure and patient.

Week after week, she returned. Rain tapped gently on her shoulders sometimes; other times the sun warmed her face. But she never missed a day. And neither did he. His music was a language beyond speech, telling stories no one else could hear. And every Thursday, she listened, her breath held like a prayer.

Then, one Thursday, something changed.

His bow lifted with a trembling brightness, and the melody that poured out shimmered with warmth. It was hesitant, but hopeful-a song of morning after long, endless night. He dared to open his eyes, and for a fleeting moment their gazes met. She was crying-not from sadness, but from something deep and raw, as if the music had touched a place inside her that had long been silent.

It was the last time she saw him.

The next Thursday, the bench was empty. No boy. No violin. Only the noise of the city, cold and unfeeling.

That day, she came as usual and took her seat. But the wind was colder than before, and the sky hung heavy with gray clouds. She slipped her hands deep into her pockets and drew a quiet breath. Inside her chest, a mix of waiting and fear tangled tightly-words she couldn’t quite say. The silence where his music once lived felt louder than any sound. People around still passed by, unaware of him, but she knew. She knew that he might never return to this place. Yet she didn’t leave. She stayed, guarding the empty bench until the very end.

She waited for hours. She came back the next day. And the next.

Days turned to weeks. Rain dripped from leafless branches. The city square emptied with the falling Autumn leaves, but she remained-still in her green sweater, clutching her red notebook, waiting for a sound that never came.

On the eighth Thursday, something was different. On the stone where he once sat lay a small envelope, worn by weather and time. She opened it with shaking hands. Inside was a single violin string and a short, carefully written note:

“Thank you for hearing me. I’m going home now-to where the sound of light exists. Keep listening. -J.”

She pressed the string to her chest, afraid it might dissolve into nothingness. The string was all that remained of him, yet it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

Years passed. 

She grew taller, stronger, and carried the memory of his music deep within her heart. Though that heart bore cracks, it was no longer hollow. His sorrow had taken root there, blossoming into something new-hope threaded with pain.

She became a composer. Her symphonies whispered with the echo of his sadness and shimmered with the fragile glow of his hope. At every concert, she saved one seat in the front row. Empty. Lit by a single golden spotlight.

Perhaps it was foolish.

But maybe, in the quiet spaces between the notes, where music lingers like a whispered secret, he could still hear her too.